Solitary

Solitary
By Tyreall DuBoe

I had been in tough places before. That basement, tied to a chair, while rival gang bangers talked about dumping my body.

Shoot-outs and arguments, the beatings by my stepfather, the murders of my close friends, losing my great grandmother and my first love.

Broken hearted, discarded, and lost – the many years that I spent in group homes, placements, lock down facilities, and juvenile hall.

Cutting myself with staples, my mother’s cancer, my mother’s cruel words. Everyone leaving me for dead as I serve my twelve-year prison sentence.

But nothing was like sitting in solitary confinement, carrying that weight. The State of Nevada gave me a long sentence. The slow kind, but long all the same. Then they put me in a room for two years, alone, with nothing to do but to think about it. I only came out of my cell ten times in a two-year period.

There was no human contact. The guards were forbidden to talk to or touch us. I couldn’t see or interact with other inmates. I was given one hour to exercise a day, in a walled-off courtyard by myself. But I never took that trip to the yard. It was basically a bigger cell, but at least I would be able to see the sky. There was one window in my cell. No bars. I saw nothing, twenty-four hours a day, but walls and barbed wire fences.

I counted the concrete blocks. I studied the ceiling. I rubbed the concrete, just to feel the rough patches and cracks. I turned on my sink and watched the water. I did push-ups until my arms were dead. I wrote about my sorrows and psychological torture that the prison guards put us through. I cried myself to sleep. I wished for someone who would come into my life and never run off on me. I wished that my life was different.

There was a slot in the metal door where they passed through meals. It was usually covered, but when the food arrived, they unlocked the metal flap and folded it down to make a tray. If I left the food on the tray, they left the slot open. I left it the full hour so I could feel the air, smell whatever was outside, press the side of my face against the wall to catch a glimpse of the tier. There was nothing out there but concrete and solid metal doors.

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Solitary
By Cesar Hernandez

A year ago, I was in solitary confinement one moment, the next, I was classified as G2 status.

Over the past year, some things have changed, some things are unchanged. At the same time, my productivity has gone down in some areas.

When I was inside the Death Row Building at Polunsky, my day was from 3am to 5pm. I had no choice but to be patient and wait for everything to come to my solitary confinement cell.

In my cell, I could usually read a book per day. Now, it takes me a couple of days to read a book due to lack of time.

I would listen to Air One Christian Radio. Now, I only use my radio to see what time it is.

In solitary, I would get visits behind the glass. My last visit was 2019. I thought my dad would come visit me as soon as I wrote him telling him I am now contact visit eligible. I last hugged my dad April 2011.

I am grateful to have a good cellmate. At the same time, as I write this, we’re sitting in the dark. If he wasn’t in the cell right now, I would turn on the light and read.

It feels like the laundry department here is the most unappreciated department. I’ll use maintenance as an example. They get picked up early in the morning. They always get to eat lunch and dinner first.

For me to go to my laundry job, I have to wait and eat lunch with everyone else. Then, I go to work. When we leave laundry, we are almost always the last to eat dinner.

From about 10am to 6pm, I’m unable to read a book, write, nor listen to podcasts. As soon as I get back from dinner, I go to sleep.

Lately, I feel like I’m in a funk. I’m not sure if I would say I’m lonely but I might be close to the line.

My relatives don’t ever reply to my letters. I have no idea what I need to write so they reply. I’ve asked them multiple times to register their phone numbers and get email set up. It seems like they have no interest in communicating with me.

It’s difficult for me to strike up conversations with people around here. There’s so much negativity. I try to see the positive in things, but people around here only see the negative. Today, I thought the lunch tacos were wonderful, but people at my table said lunch was garbage and had no flavor.

There doesn’t seem to be many readers here. I try to tell people about the books I read and they say they don’t read books.

I try to talk about podcasts. People either say they don’t listen to podcasts or they have no interest in the podcasts I listen to. I subscribe to eighty four different podcasts. Yet, it’s very rare I come across a person who has heard the same episode, so we can discuss it.

I try to talk about movies I’ve seen on TV. People don’t watch TV.

I try to talk about the news. People don’t watch the news.

I simply do not know how to be able to converse with others.

Yet, people will gladly talk forever about doing wrong things. I have no interest in those types of conversations.

Everyone seems to live their own lives. From my perspective, it seems many have small social circles and don’t let anyone new in.

My housing area has ninety four people. I think I have not ever spoken to perhaps forty of them.

It’s very true that it’s possible to feel alone in a crowd. From my viewpoint, it seems people only have an interest in you if you can do something for them. Otherwise, they won’t even say hello to you.